


Residue

by athena_crikey



Series: The Doctor and the Detective [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse and DeBryn spend some time together on New Year's responding to a road accident. Some more Morse-DeBryn interaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Residue

**Author's Note:**

> New Year's eve 1965 - a few weeks prior to Home.

DeBryn is already packing up his bags when Morse blows in on a gust of cold wind, looking surly and disheveled. He gives DeBryn a nod and jerks his lips into a half-smile of acknowledgement, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets and his shoulders raised in a permanent shrug against the cold of the December night. His eyes sweep over the open hall, darting down to the corpse at the foot of the stairs before continuing on.

“I see you drew the short straw tonight,” remarks DeBryn, straightening his instruments before shutting the latch on his case. “The perils of being the low man on the totem pole.”

Morse removes his hands from the depths of his pockets, revealing pale skin – no gloves. He pulls his collar away from his neck with the index finger of his right hand; he’s done his winter coat up under his shirt collar, tie askew with the knot nearer the thoracic inlet than the jugular notch. “I could say the same of you,” he says, turning in a slow, steady circle as though waltzing as he continues to examine the interior of the hallway. 

“Unlike the CID, which I understand to operate on simple seniority, the call rotation of the Oxfordshire home office pathologists is an abstruse and illogical beast. It is developed initially by a shrouded process and subsequently altered through an internal network of bribery and blackmail. Sadly I failed to accumulate suitable stores of either this year, and the consequences are as you see.” He spreads his arms to indicate his place beside a dead man on a remote Oxford farm on New Year’s Eve. Morse glances over his shoulder to catch the gesture, lips twitching briefly upwards.

The small farmhouse belongs to Joseph Callumney, now lying dead on his hall rug with a snapped neck. His driver’s licence sets his age at 69, the cane lying beside him and the curve of his back suggest osteoporosis, the thick glasses resting several feet away at the base of the hall table indicate myopia. 

“Did he fall?” asks Morse, having apparently completed his examination of the surroundings. He indicates the stairs with a nod of his head. 

DeBryn stands, dusting off his knees and then his hands. “There are several minor contusions consistent with such a fall. Cause of death appears to be a cervical fracture at the C6 vertebra.”

“A broken neck,” clarifies Morse; DeBryn nods. “Any signs of violence?”

“Other than that committed by the staircase? No. I will need his medical records, but it would appear he suffered from a gait-altering ailment, likely osteoporosis, as well as short sight.”

“There’s also a half-empty bottle of whisky on the kitchen table,” says Morse absently, tucking his hands back in his pockets.

DeBryn glances at the detective in surprise, then at the open doorway leading to the kitchen. Morse would have been facing it when he entered, but only for two seconds at the most. DeBryn walks over to look for himself; sure enough, a half-empty bottle is sitting on the table beside an empty tumbler.

“‘And surely you’ll buy your pint cup, and surely I’ll buy mine,’” recites DeBryn, under his breath. 

He turns back to find Morse standing in the centre of the hall, watching him. “Well, I’m not one to label cases open-and-shut, but pending the results of the autopsy if there are no other signs of foul play in the house I would say this appears to be a natural death.” He returns to his bags and closes the second.

“According to PC Nixon who drove me out there are no sign signs of forced entry, and no signs in the yard of any vehicles other than the farmer’s,” reports Morse.

“Then I would say you are looking at the last natural death of the year.” DeBryn picks up his traps and turns to find Morse standing in his way, expression watchful. He raises his eyebrows “Anything else?”

Morse shifts his weight, canting his head slightly to the side. “Actually, doctor… could you drop me somewhere a bit nearer town? The other PC’s already gone off shift, and Nixon’s here until the van arrives.” 

“I believe I could manage that,” says DeBryn, handing over the heavier of the bags. “Let’s make a start, then.”

***

There’s ice in the potholes in Callumney’s yard, and the black road beyond isn’t much better. DeBryn drives slowly, headlamps streaming out ahead as they pass through silvery fields, earth frozen solid and dusted with frost. The deep ditches by the side of the road, meant to hold heavy spring and fall rains, have raised tall grasses that the frosts have frozen into spears, standing straight and tall against the darkness beyond. DeBryn skirts around all the holes and dips he can pick out, but still feels the wheels skidding occasionally.

“I hope this didn’t interrupt your New Year’s plans?” he asks Morse, voice pitched to carry over the roar of the car heater. 

Morse shakes his head. “You’re expected to be sober while on call,” he replies, dryly. 

DeBryn glances at him out of the corner of his eye; in the darkness of the country night, he can only make out the sharp line of Morse’s nose, a sliver of cheekbone and the curve of his chin. “I thought perhaps family?” he says, neutrally.

“We don’t – don’t live near each other,” Morse says, and DeBryn is sure that however he intended to finish the sentence when he began it, that wasn’t it. His fingers, resting on the door, tap out a terse rhythm. DeBryn lets him be. 

There’s a sharp curve in the road up ahead, framed on the left by a tall hedge, and DeBryn slows to give himself more control. Just as they head into the corner, he sees a patch of red on the road – impossibly bright, and then his eyes widen and he slams on the brakes.

Up ahead a car is sitting stopped in the middle of the road, brake lights reflecting on the icy road. Ahead of it the boot of a second car is protruding from the steep ditch, sitting at almost a forty-five degree angle to the road with the passenger side in deeper.

DeBryn’s Morris skids at the first application of the brake, but at the second the wheels grip and it stops only a few feet from the rear bumper of the other car on the road. Morse is already pulling himself out of the Morris even as DeBryn puts it into park with a shaky hand, and then follows.

Morse is sliding down the slippery slope into the deep ditch on the driver’s side, where a dark figure is standing with a torch, prying the door open. From the way Morse is talking to him, it’s clear they’re acquainted. 

“… here myself. Barely stopped in time. Someone should run out and put safety cones round the bend, or we’ll have ourselves another accident.” 

DeBryn makes his way to the edge of the ditch and waits; he recognizes the uniform of a PC, although not the voice. Likely the man Nixon took over from.

“I doubt it; there’s not much by the way of traffic out here, especially at this time of night. Can’t you –” Morse falls silent as the constable finally manages to wrench the door open. And then: “Doctor DeBryn.”

DeBryn slips down the frosty grass and into the ankle-deep icy water, nudging the two constables aside and taking the torch. The car is a Triumph Herald, its hood crumpled like foil by the impact with the bottom of the ditch. The front wheel is partially submerged on this side, likely completely on the other, and the engine is giving little pings as it cools rapidly. The windshield at first glance in the torchlight appears to have been woven over by a spider – a closer look reveals that the lines are cracks, very fine, set with the centre above the steering wheel and radiating outwards.

The driver is a woman, 30s-40s at a glance, bleeding from a head wound, and trapped behind the steering wheel which has been forced backwards by the impact of the car against the ditch. Her pulse is relatively strong but slow, skin cold and clammy. Her breathing sounds clear to the naked ear, and there is no blood in her mouth. As he directs the torch lower, he sees that the steering wheel has pinned her abdomen firmly against the seat, that she isn’t wearing a seat belt, and that her right calf is smeared with dark, wet blood. 

“Ma’am? Can you hear me? Ma’am?” There’s no response, no rise in her pulse or breathing, no movement. He slides one pupil open and shines the torch-light in, and sighs when he sees the dilation there – no brain damage, at least.

“Call for an ambulance immediately. She needs to be taken to hospital. Do you have a radio in your car?” DeBryn glances at the PC, who shakes his head.

“I’ll have to run into town, sir, most of the farms out here will be shut up by now, or not on the phone. It’ll take a while – you know how busy the ambulances are, New Year’s.”

DeBryn frowns acidly. “You tell them it’s a road accident, shock, head wound, probably internal injuries, assessed by a doctor, and they’re to send someone at once. Understand?”

The man nods and hurries around, high stepping through the water. “I’ll leave the cones for you, Morse.”

Morse nods. “Right, thanks Adams.”

“Put them out if you must, then go into my boot and fetch out my black bag and the blanket that’s there,” orders DeBryn.

Morse disappears as well, and DeBryn shuffles his footing until he manages to get himself out of the frigid water, one foot half-buried in the dirt, the other balanced on the edge of the doorway. It’s precarious, but preferable to frostbite. DeBryn props the torch up on the dashboard and begins careful palpations of the woman’s abdomen.

On the road behind him, PC Adams starts his car, adding for a moment a dull rumbling to the otherwise silent world. He pulls away almost immediately, lights and sound fading into the distance and leaving them in silence again. DeBryn lets out a sigh, breath white, and sees it disappear by the light of the torch. 

Morse returns a moment later, hailing him from the top of the bank. “Doctor DeBryn? I have the bag and the blanket.”

DeBryn doesn’t look up. “Come round the other side.” 

It takes Morse a few moments to get the passenger door open, and then he slides awkwardly in. The water is deeper on that side, DeBryn notices, glancing through the car and out the other side, owing to the uneven angle at which the car has sloped in the ditch. Morse shuffles along the seat, bag on his lap and blanket under his arm, looking uncertain. 

“Is she –”

“Too early to be forming conclusions. Open the bag and give me the stethoscope.” 

Her lungs are clear and sound, but her breathing is shallow; magnified, DeBryn can hear the beginnings of fluttering and weakness in her heartbeat. He hands the stethoscope back to Morse. “I need gloves, gauze, the bottle of alcohol, and the suture kit. Then wrap the blanket around her upper body; keep it tight around her sides and at her shoulders but loose over her chest and abdomen.”

“What are you – oh.” Morse looks away as DeBryn carefully lifts the long skirt covering her right leg, and the deep gash the broken throttle peddle has caused. DeBryn glances up in concern as the constable swallows thickly – the last thing he needs is two unconscious patients to deal with – but Morse continues laying out the blanket, jaw tight, eyes averted, and after a moment DeBryn goes back to assessing the wound. 

The cut is deep and long, running all the way from the peroneus longus to the peroneus brevis and slicing right down to the tibia. From the blood flow, it’s possible that the wound might have nicked the artery. He pulls on the gloves and runs a careful probing hand along the wound – and feels the woman move against his hand. She moans, trying to roll away; DeBryn takes hold of her leg at the knee, holding it still.

“Don’t let her move – hold her still.”

Morse glances at him, alarmed, but does as he’s told, taking her by the shoulders and holding her steady. “Ma’am? It’s alright. Hold still, please. You’re alright.”

She opens her eyes gradually, blinking heightened, extremely disoriented, and rolls her head to stare at Morse. “What happened? Where am I?” She’s slurring her words, eyes unfocused –concussion. 

“You were in a car accident. We’ve got a doctor seeing to you now – you’re going to be fine. You just need to stay still until the ambulance arrives.”

“I don’t remember… an accident.” She looks down at the wheel pinning her to her seat and frowns. She lifts her arm jerkily, stiffly, as if it wasn’t connected to the rest of her, and lays it on the wheel. “What…”

“You shouldn’t move,” Morse says, softly, drawing her arm back down under the blanket. “What’s your name?”

“Madeline Atkins.” She’s still staring at the wheel uncomprehendingly. 

“Keep her talking,” hisses DeBryn, beginning to clean out the wound. She winces, but not very much – her lower limbs must be mostly numb. Not a good sign. 

“Where do you live, Madeline?” asks Morse, with an awkward conversational smile which she certainly doesn’t notice.

“Oxford.” When she speaks, her voice is quiet and tense, as if speaking from a distance – the effort required to speak through the pain and concussion. 

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Do you work?”

“No. My husband is a don … at Trinity College.” 

“What’s his subject?” tries Morse, clearly grasping at straws.

“Chemistry.”

DeBryn rolls his eyes. This isn’t a conversation, it’s an interrogation. And Morse, apparently out of questions, falls silent. DeBryn glares at him. “Keep her talking – she needs to stay awake,” he hisses.

“Where were you gong tonight, Madeline?” he asks, rubbing a hand across his forehead. 

She shakes her head gently, closing her eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You can’t sleep yet. You have to tell me – where were you going tonight?”

“I – a recital.”

“Music? For New Year’s?”

She nods tiredly, eyes still closed. “Yes. My sister’s choir.” 

DeBryn’s doing his best to triage the wound, but with limited supplies, light and time he doesn’t dare start anything very permanent. He reaches under the blanket with his free hand and takes Madeline’s pulse at her wrist – not much slower, but noticeably weaker. 

“What did they perform? Madeline?”

“I don’t know.” She’s barely murmuring, chin low on her chest. Morse puts his hand against her cheek, raising her head. His fingers are white, nails blue with cold. 

“Madeline, what did they perform? One song.”

She opens her eyes halfway and looks at him through the screen of her lashes, pained and weary. “Residue.”

“Do you know the words?”

“Some.”

“That’s alright. We’ll stick to the easy parts.”

DeBryn, nearly finished wrapping the leg wound, watches as Morse begins very quietly to sing. He does so watching Madeline, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding the blanket tight around her. 

_“Here we bring new water from the well so clear,_  
Come on, Madeline,  
_For to cleanse our spirits, this happy New Year._  
The chorus now:  
_Sing residue, sing residue, the water and the wine,  
The seven bright gold wires and the bugles that do shine.”_

Madeline mouths along, hardly making a sound but still conscious and still aware. Morse keeps her following, reverting to the chorus when she slips or loses her way in the lyrics. He’s thrown off his earlier awkwardness the way he does when he finds his focus, sheds it like a cloak to show the concentration and compassion beneath. His voice is quiet but pleasant, carrying the tune easily while his eyes watch to make sure she is still awake, still aware. He doesn’t once glance at DeBryn. 

Madeline’s beginning to fade when DeBryn hears the quiet rumble of an engine. Morse glances at him and he stands, legs aching from his awkward crouch, and scrambles in an ungainly manner up the side of the ditch. He has to peer into the bright headlamps for a few moments before he can make out the white of the ambulance.

“It’s about time,” he tells the driver as he gets out, adding, “You’ll need a backboard.”

DeBryn supervises the removal of Madeline Atkins from her car; with Morse helping from inside and him acting as a third pair of hands from the outside it’s smoother than it might otherwise have been, although the frosty slope and the water don’t help matters. She’s slipping into unconscious as they get her onto the stretcher.

DeBryn watches the ambulance depart, turning slowly on the icy road and then pull away. Then he returns to the car to fetch his bag and blanket. Morse is starting to get out, accompanied by water splashing. DeBryn looks down, frowning, and sees that the passenger foot well is mostly submerged, the bottom of the door underwater as well. Morse’s trouser legs are wet from the mid-shin down. 

DeBryn fetches out his belongings and takes them up to the road to wait for Morse. The constable emerges more slowly, pushing his way up the slope on very stiff legs. He makes it to the top before sitting down sharply on the rear fender of the Herald and chafing at his legs with his hands. 

“There’s a heater in my car,” offers DeBryn, after a moment. Morse looks up sheepishly and nods. DeBryn returns his traps to the boot and starts the engine, turning the heater on full. It’s a few moments before Morse makes it over on stiff legs, shuffling in with a groan and holding his hands up against the warm air.

“Can we wait here a minute? I need to re-align the cones.” 

DeBryn gives him an accommodating look. “Given the circumstances Morse, I think I could do them for you. Just don’t consider it a precedent.” 

By the time he returns from repositioning the cones to warn motorists away from the edge of the ditch rather than his own Morris, Morse’s hands are no longer birch-white and he’s sitting back rather more naturally against the seat. DeBryn slips the car into gear and with a last glance backwards at the dark shadow of the Herald pulls out onto the road.

“Will she live?” asks Morse quietly, staring out the window into the darkness beyond. The sky is crisp and clear, stars cut-glass sharp above as they shine down, but DeBryn can’t tell if he’s looking at them.

“She has a decent chance. It depends on how profound her internal injuries are – there was certainly profuse bleeding, and shock had set in strongly, but no blood in her lungs or broken ribs, and her concussion was not extreme. And she maintained consciousness well – to your credit.”

Morse’s lips twitch upwards perfunctorily, eyes still staring out at the night. 

“You know,” announces DeBryn after a moment, glancing at him, “when we first met I expressed the rather hastily-formed impression that you were…”

“Yellow?” suggests Morse, straightening from his slouch and raising sardonic eyebrows. 

“I believe green was the predominant colour,” replies DeBryn in the same tone. “However, I was going to say, rather too soft for the job. Although I reassessed that view some time ago, it occurred to me I should perhaps mention it before the year is up. I’ve never been one for loose ends.” 

Morse is silent for a moment, temporarily taken aback. “Thank you,” he says, quietly. And then, in a cheekier tone, “I’m not sure my initial assessment has changed at all. Although I have since augmented it with one or two more favourable opinions.” 

DeBryn smiles. “Fair enough.” He slows to make a turn onto the main road – Oxford is only a couple of miles away now. “Where I can drop you, constable?”

“Depends what time it is; I’m off after midnight.” Morse reaches for his left cuff. In the distance, a church bell begins to toll. Then another, and another. DeBryn rolls down his window despite the frigid night air; beside him, Morse does the same. 

All over Oxford, the churches are tolling out the New Year. Hundreds of bells ring out across the dark fields, low and sonorous. Some are simply counting out the hour, but many are change ringing, this far away the patterns of their music blending together in a soft, pleasant tapestry of sound.

“Happy New Year, Morse.”

Morse nods, smiling gently. “Happy New Year.”

In the distance the bells begin to fade, and DeBryn rolls up his window with a shiver. “Phew. Let’s turn our noses towards home, then. Alright by you?”

“Yes, thanks.” Morse closes his eyes, leans his head back against the seatback and folds his arms across his chest. He’s positioned himself directly in front of the heater’s output and curled up there, cat-like, but DeBryn doesn’t begrudge him. 

Morse is nearly asleep when DeBryn pulls up outside his flat, bleary-eyed and ungainly as he makes his way across the pavement towards the door. He waves DeBryn off and lets himself in, disappearing up the stairs before the door closes. 

DeBryn doesn’t see Morse again for nearly three weeks, which isn’t a bad thing – it means no sudden unexplained deaths. He does, however, spend the next two days with Residue rooted firmly in his brain.

END


End file.
